


Sensible

by hermitized



Category: 18th & 19th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Chronic Illness, Gen, Heat Stroke, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-14
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-26 07:42:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4996294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hermitized/pseuds/hermitized
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lieutenant Colonel Burr suffers heat stroke at the Battle of Monmouth. Alexander has to write a report on the situation in the field. That's the only reason he's here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stricken

_June 1778_

_Focus, Alexander. Focus, get the report for Washington, and get out._

He’s trying to do that, he really, really is, but his mind is somewhere. It’s lucky he can write without looking, because his eyes are scanning the cots and floors, searching for someone.

Alexander can do two things at once. He can not do three. So he’s writing, and looking around, and he bangs skulls with one of the nurses.

She scowls at him, dark eyes flashing. For an instant, he wonders what Angelica is doing here. Then, she stands up, and says, through gritted teeth. “Please watch where you’re going.”

“I’m sorry. Forgive me, Nurse…”

“Ferrier.”

“Miss Ferrier. I’m looking for someone. An officer.” He names the regiment, tries to give a brief description. “Have you seen him?”

She tilts her head at him, looks down, and laughs. “You have a good timing. The man you’re looking for? I was just bringing water for him.”

He follows her back. Ferrier says, “Peter, this is Lieutenant Colonel Alexander Hamilton. He knows our man.” She kneels down beside the medic, who is crouching over Aaron Burr.They’ve stripped off his jacket, and his vest. Peter, looks up at Alexander, nods to him, then unbuttons and peels back his shirt. It’s completely wet with sweat. His lip is bleeding.

Alexander knows the signs and symptoms like the back of his hand. He’s seen it a hundred time before, and he’ll see it a hundred time again. “Sun stroke?”

Ferrier is unlacing Burr’s pants. She looks up at him, and nods. “It seems like half the army’s falling down sick."

Half the army…

“How is he?” he asks. “I mean, how will he be?”

Peter says, “We need to cool him down, quickly. After that, we’ll see.”

Burr gasps through weeping lips, dried out passageways. Peter soaks a cloth in water Ferrier brought, wrings it out, lets Burr suck on the edge. He gently dabs the clean corner inside his nose, cleaning out the dried pus. “It’s all right, sir. You’re going to be all right.”

Alexander feels out of place, itchy, useless. He wants to get back to Washington. He wants to reach out and hold Burr’s hand. He wants...there’s so very many things he wants.

Peter looks up at Ferrier. “How’s our water situation?”

“We’re doing our best.”

“Get me some more wet cloths. Cold if you can. Please.”

Ferrier stands and heads out onto the field. Peter looks up at Alexander. “Sir, perhaps…”

“I’m staying.” He sits down on the ground. He lifts his chin, resolute, looks him straight in the eye. “I’m staying.”

Peter meets his gaze for what feels like a long time. Alexander holds steady. Peter blinks, smiles. “Yes, sir.” He soaks  the cloth with the remaining water, presses it to Burr’s forehead. “Hundreds of men are suffering just like this. It’s insanity.”

“Lee.” Alexander grinds his teeth. “This is his doing.”

“Maybe.” Peter shrugs. “Maybe it’s just bad luck.”

Bad luck. Terrible, awful luck. _God, don’t let this be a theme._

Peter motions to Alexander. “Help me get him onto a cot.”

Alexander lifts Aaron’s feet. HIs skin is hot and clammy. With care, they lift him from the floor to a thin and low, but sturdy cot. Alexander lets his hand linger on his ankle, before grabbing his canteen and taking a long drink.

Ferrier bursts in, wet clothes layered over her arms. In silent conversation, she and Peter lay them over Burr’s body. Peter mumbles, “Still cool, good job,” and Ferrier smiles.

Knees pulled to his chest, Alexander watches, He pulls his glasses out of his pocket, opens up a small notebook. “You say heatstroke is a problem.”

“All across the army,” Peter says. “It’s bad. I can’t say I know what’s to be done, but something’s gotta be.”

Aaron moans.

Alexander starts to inch a little closer, then stops. “Is there anything you want the general to know?”

Peter and Ferrier both look up at him, hollow eyed, worn out. Ferrier tugs at the ties ho“Tell him we need supplies. Bandages especially, real bad. Alcohol. Fresh uniforms.”

“Tell him we need to rework our strategy in light of the heat,” Peter says. “Tell him… we can’t last much longer in our current state..”

Reaching out, Alexander places his hand on Aaron’s wrist. “Lieutenant Colonel Burr?”

Aaron’s eyes open. They meet Alexander’s. He swallows, gasps a breath through mucus. “Tell the General...tell him I would have completed my mission, if he’d let me.”

“I’ll make sure he knows.”

Ferrier places a canteen on Aaron’s lips. He sips, cautious at first, then desperately, hungrily. She lets him get one big gulp, then take it away.

“Thank you,” Burr says.

“Of course.”

His eyes are already closed. It’s still boiling hot, but he’s shivering. Maybe trembling would be more accurate. Peter drapes the last wet cloth across his throat. Aaron turns his head from side to side, tries to get comfortable.

Alexander squeezes his wrist, feels his pulse press against his fingers. He lets it beat a few times, then stands up.

“I’ll tell the General everything you told me.” He meets and holds Peter’s eyes. “Thank you for your service.” He turns the piercing gaze to her. “And yours, Miss Ferrier.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He looks down at Aaron, looks up at the light filtering in the cloth of the ceiling, sighs. “Goddamn Lee.” Turning on his heel, he storms out into the main camp.

Peter turns to look at Ferrier. Ferrier is looking down at Lieutenant Colonel Burr. She adjust the cloths on his throat, his chest, his head.

Aaron tries to speak, coughs, swallows hard. Ferrier gives him some more of the canteen. He clears his throat, then says, “Be sensible, Alexander.” He looks up at her. “Make sure you tell him to be sensible.”

“I will, sir. I promise.” She eases him back onto the cot. “You need to rest, sir.”

“Rest. Rest when there’s still so much to be done.” He closes his eyes, sighs. “Alexander will be so disappointed.”

“Mr. Hamilton is very worried about you, sir.”

“Alexander? Worried?” He smiles, shakes his head. “Never.” He frowns, drags his attention to Peter’s face. “I’m very tired. Is that bad?”

“You’re talking and oriented. That’s good.”

He looks at Ferrier. She ducks her head. “He’s cooling down, but he’s still too warm.’”

“Keep it up with the wet cloths, as much as you can. Make sure he drinks, just make sure he doesn’t accidentally induce vomiting.” Peter stands. “I have other patients to attend to. Emma will take good care of you.”

“Emma.” Aaron close his eyes. “You’re a sensible woman, aren’t you Emma?”

“I suppose, sir.”

“Always be sensible. Don’t let your impulses get the best of you.” He squints his eyes open, blinks at the bright lights and swirling shadows, and closes them again. Weakly, he throws his hand over his face. “Be sensible. Think things through. Be patient.”

“I understand, sir.”

She goes outside to get more cloths, to get a breath of fresh air. When she comes back, he’s unconscious, sleeping restlessly.

Damn thsi war. Boys like that should be studying together at Princeton, not sweating and bleeding in the fields of upstate New York.

They were built for quills and desks, not guns and bayonets.

With a sigh, she peels the cloth from his throat replaces it with a fresh one. It'll be a long night, before the danger has passed.


	2. Resignation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short meeting between friends (or rivals, or whatever it is they are) as Burr resigns from the army to recover his health

_March 1779_

“We’re sorry to see you go, Lieutenant Colonel Burr.”

He’s not sure Washington means it, but he smiles anyway. “Thank you, General. Believe me, no one is sadder about my need to retire than myself.”

Alexander is sitting to Washington’s right. He’s acting like he’s not really listening. He’s writing a letter, probably to congress, taking notes when Washington asks for it, just another secretary sitting in on another officer’s last meeting.

Though he doesn’t know exactly what it is he’s really thinking, Aaron knows him too well at this point to buy the mask.

Taking a deep breath, Aaron says, “If I can provide assistance, in anyway, please do not hesitate to reach out to me. I will do whatever I am able to serve my country.”

“I have a few things in mind already,” the General says. “I’ll speak with you in a few weeks. Do make sure Mr. Hamilton has your addresses, residence and mailing. Keep us apprised of any changes”

Alexander’s eyes flicker at that. Aaron sees him angrily strike a word and rewrite. “I will, sir.”

Washington rises, and Aaron stands in time with. Alexander scrambles to his feet half a second behind, pulling his papers into a neat stack. Lifting his hand to brow, Washington salutes him. “Thank you for your service, Lieutenant Colonel.”

In that moment, for just a second, Aaron pretends that he’s getting what he wanted.

He lifts his hand to return the gesture. “It’s been a pleasure and an honor to serve with you, sir. Truly. Again, please. Whatever I can do.”

He nods to the general, and the general nods to him. He lets out a breath. Washington holds out his hand, and Aaron shakes it. Alexander nods to him, fiddles with his pen.

“You’re dismissed,” Washington says. He takes his seat, Alexander follows. “We will speak soon.”

“Yes, sir.”

As he turns to the door, he just catches Washington giving Alexander a Look. There’s a pause, then he hears his footsteps behind him as he exits the room.

Aaron almost wishes Alexander hadn’t followed him, because he has to stop when he reaches the steps of the building and lean against the wall to rest.

One doctor says the heat cooked his liver. Another says it scarred his heart. They’re not really sure exactly what got broke, but they know that something did, and now he’s just tired all the time. There are days when he wakes up and feels like there’s something heavy sitting on his chest, like his blood itself has somehow gone bed and everything inside is covered in gunk and rust.

To be honest, it’s nearly a relief to know that on those days, he’s not going to have to put on that heavy jacket and be a leader.

Nearly.

He feels Alexander at his shoulder, looks over. He’s holding his journal to his chest. “Where are you headed?”

“I’ve hired a carriage.” He makes a gesture west. “I’m to meet them. They won’t be there yet.” He needs to sit. Purple spots are flooding his vision.

There isn’t a word to describe the jolt in his chest and throat when Alexander takes him by the elbow. The heat that floods his face is embarrassment. He looks up at him, and he knows then exactly what he was thinking back at Washington’s desk.

He was thinking, he’d rather die than retire like that.

Alexander says, oddly soft, “Let me get your addresses. I know a spot with some shade, you have a long ride ahead of you. You should get some rest.”

It’s all too easy to imagine the look Alexander would give him, if their positions were reversed. He can nearly see the proud eyes, the half-smile half-snarl as he shakes off his arm and stalks his way. Aaron wishes he had the energy to do that. He wishes he even had the impulse to do that. He just sighs, rubs his eyes. “All right, Alexander. All right.”

Would it be easier to accept, if he’d been shot? Probably. He’d have a scar then, a story, maybe even a medal. Maybe he’d have gotten more fanfare besides a salute and business-like handshake from Washington. He’d be leaving with something like glory, not because he’s sick and just can’t get better.

Alexander sits Aaron down in the sparse, wet shade of some trees. It’s just barely spring. He opens his journal up, tracks down the correct page in no time at all. Aaron rattles of the address of the building he’ll be moving too. By now, he doesn’t have to look at the piece of paper crumpled in his pocket, he has it memorized.

He sees Alexander’s eyes flicker, as he puts a pin in his mental map of Manhattan. “You’ll be returning to your studies.”

“Yes. It’s about time, I think. “ Say it enough, and you’ll start to believe it.

“Hopefully, soon enough, I’ll be able to join you.” Alexander looks closely at the ink to make sure it’s dry, then shuts the cover. “I miss it. More than I thought I would, even.”

“Me too.”

They sit in silence for awhile. Aaron leans back against the bench and closes his eyes. This the right thing to do, the sensible thing to do. It really, really is.

Why do the right things have to hurt so much sometimes?

Alexander asks, in an uncharacteristically tiny voice, “Do they know what it is? Is it your liver?”

Aaron swallows. “They don’t know, really. They think so.” His heart does one of those stutter-steps that always scares him, and he forces himself to take a deep breath.

“Monmouth was a mess,” he hisses. Aaron just looks at him, tired. It was a mess, but it's nine months gone. The damages are there, all they can do now is live with them. Under his gaze, Alexander shakes off his anger and says, “Something has to be done. We cannot lose this war.”

“Something has to be done,” Aaron says. He clears his throat, fishes his watch out of his pocket. “I need to leave. My carriage might be there already.”

“Far?”

“A short walk.”

Alexander chews on his lip, then shakes head at something, pulls his journal to his ribs again. “I should head back. The General…”

“I understand.” He rises, extends his hand, pretends his fingertips aren’t shaking. “Take care of yourself, Alexander.”

“Same to you.” Returning the handshake, Alexander places his other hand over his, not even for a second, then drops both behind his back. “Study hard, Burr. When the war is over, I intend to come back and beat everyone’s top scores.” Especially yours rings behind the words

“I look forward to it.”

In the carriage later, leaning against his jacket folded on the wall, he remembers the look Alexander gave him, over his shoulder, as he walked away.

He never wanted anyone’s pity, let alone Alexander Hamilton’s.

Beat all his scores. Good. The more difficult he can make it for him, the better.

It’s a shame to have to leave the war, it really is, but there’s good work to be done in the city, at his desks, with his books.

Soon enough, Alexander will see that too,


End file.
